Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Rian’s left eye twitched spasmodically.
Before he jerked his face to the side, mouth compressing and cheeks puffing out on a strangled snort of laughter. He closed his eyes and held both hands up as if surrendering.
“...okay. All right. Okay,” he groaned. “I’m aware I sound ridiculous.”
Damon let out a few more snickers, rubbing his knuckles under his eyes, then breathed in deep and pulled himself under control. “Only a little. Not quite as much as when you were slinging that shelf of dicks around.” He peered past Rian, at the little penis forest planted along that back table. “You really gonna make them exhibit them?”
Exhaling, Rian opened his eyes, peering over his shoulder at the pottery dicks. “No. I’m not really into punishment by forced humiliation. Not my kink.” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t mind letting them think I will, though.”
Damon only half heard the last part.
When his brain had come to a grinding halt at not my kink, when the last thing he needed was his mind connecting anything to do with this stuck up pretty boy and kinks.
Rian just...just...made him too damned angry, and Damon didn’t like it.
Didn’t like himself this way, when this wasn’t who he was, and he couldn’t figure out why the hell every little thing Falwell said got him so fucking heated up until he was ready to snap at the smallest damned things.
He could feel a fight building up inside him right now, like that was his instinctive reaction to the way that irritating wisp of a man seemed to catch his attention in all the wrong ways and it was the only fucking way he could suppress it. No, goddammit. He wasn’t going to start another fucking fight with Rian just to avoid thinking about...about...
About the fact that even when he was being a little snot, Rian Falwell was gorgeous as hell.
And Damon didn’t really know what to do with that.
Other than to just...slump forward, thudding his forehead against the door frame above his curled fingers and muttering, “...sorry. I’m sorry.”
He just...waited. Waited for the rejection, or the sarcastic—whatever. Whatever, let Rian say whatever he wanted.
But Rian didn’t say anything.
And Damon held his tongue for several moments longer, before frowning and lifting his head, glancing back again.
Rian just watched him with his head tilted to one side like a confused kitten, hazel eyes dark and curious, mouth drawn into a puzzled line.
“What?” Damon asked, and nearly winced when he heard the harsh bark in his own voice.
“You keep apologizing to me,” Rian said softly.
Damon took a deep breath and made himself turn to face Rian fully, settling to lean his back against the door frame with the cool wood pressing between his shoulder blades, along his spine. “I keep being a jackass to you,” he admitted. “When you’re a jackass, you apologize.”
Rian opened his mouth, then closed it again, his gaze darting to the side as he held up one finger. “Just a moment.”
“...what...?”
Turning away, Rian stalked toward the back of the classroom. “I can’t have a serious conversation with you with those things staring at me.”
Damon blinked, while Rian scooped up the shelf of dicks and carried it back to where it had been hidden behind the kiln before; he watched Rian carefully settle the wooden slab back onto its pegs with probably a little more care than a half-dozen pottery penises deserved. The one with googly eyes wobbled, as it disappeared behind the kiln. But when Rian finished, dusted his hands off, and turned back, Damon caught his eye...and Rian just smiled at him, sweet and tired and almost shy.
And Damon found himself smiling back, shaking his head as he relaxed a little, just...trying to let go of this tension.
“Nothing ever goes the way I expect around you, Falwell,” he murmured.
“No?” Rian twined his fingers behind his back and took a few drifting steps closer. “Is it really so terrible?”
“I don’t know what it is. I don’t really know how to classify ceramic dicks.”
Rian chuckled, settling to sit on the table Valdez had vacated, drawing one leg up to perch his sandaled foot on the edge and clasping his hands together over his knee. “I don’t think anyone knows how to classify ceramic dicks. I’m sure if you ask the right pretentious gallery curator, it’s avant-garde ‘found art.’”
Damon curled his upper lip. “You can’t be serious.”
“Unfortunately, I am.” Rian smiled wryly. “Some of the people I dealt with for my gallery exhibitions were...interesting.”
“You do gallery showings?” Damon winced. “I mean—from what I’ve seen you’re good, so I’m not surprised, I just...”
Rian cut him off with a gently upraised hand. “Claws down... I promise. I know what you meant.”
There was a wealth of unspoken things in those words, in the look that lingered on Damon, drifting over his face thoughtfully.
Things that made Damon wonder if Rian was struggling the same way he was.